


All the Good You Can

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, First Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all of the Feanorions came to Middle-earth out of vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All the Good You Can

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

(Minor changes, such as corrected typos, may not be reflected below. For the most up-to-date version please read this story [as a PDF](http://dl.dropbox.com/u/11470456/Fanfic/greed.pdf) or [in HTML](http://dl.dropbox.com/u/11470456/Fanfic/greed.htm). Please note, both the above links point to an external website and are not part of HASA.)  
  


"Nor will [the truly generous person] neglect his own possessions, since he wants to use them to help others. And he will not give to just anybody, so that he might have something to give to the right people, at the right time, and where it is noble to do so. (Aristotle,  _Nicomachean Ethics_ )

Caranthir had not wanted to leave Formenos, not really. He had no desire for dominion over anything save metals and gems, and he could find that more easily at Aulë's work-bench than anywhere beyond the sea. He had gone, of course. He had no household of his own, he told himself in after-days, no great strength of men to guard his gate. What choice had there been?

He might have asked for a home in Tirion or Valmar, he supposed, but would he have been welcomed? He remembered how his father had withheld the silmarils, how even his own cousins had blamed the House of Fëanor for those lands' ever-present darkness. It was the thought of the silmarils that had won him over to his brothers' cause. The thought of finding them once again, of learning their secrets, had thrilled him. His brothers spoke too of hills yet unmined and of crafts yet unheard of by any of the Noldor. There was the rumor of the Dwarves he had heard in Aulë's shop: a hardy folk, it was said, and full of a treasure-yearning to match their maker's.

He had confessed his secret ambitions to Celegorm one night on their passage across the sea. Not such a wise idea, looking back. Celegorm had jumped from his seat by the fire and called Caranthir a  _nasty treasure-gobbler_ , the phrase they'd adopted to talk about orcs when the Twins were still young. Amrod had taken up Celegorm's side, too, saying that Caranthir had no sense of honor, and would he really fight a war for gold?

Caranthir thought  _honor_  a meaningless abstraction, given the circumstances. Was that why he had slit the old mariner's throat, back at Alqualondë? But he wisely kept that thought to himself. If his brothers' thoughts of vengeance let them sleep at night, well, let them have their rest. So he helped set flame to ship once their passage was complete, and had fought as fiercely as he could at the Battle Under the Stars and all that came after, and he spoke not a word of the silmarils.

He was little skilled at diplomacy, though, as he proved time and again. The incident with Angrod was enough to send even patient Maglor over the edge, and Caranthir was not surprised when his brother urged him to settle east beyond the upper waters of Gelion, as far from their cousins as safety would allow.

He and his people (for the lonesome craftsman now found himself a lord, much to his chagrin) did well there, building forges to rival those of Formenos. The hills were rich with iron, and Caranthir himself devised new armor, hard as steel but with a flexibility nearer to cloth than the plates his father had once crafted.

The Dwarves – foul creatures, to be sure, scrawny and ill-formed, but clever at their crafts – had improved on his design and showed him how to cover the joints with copper melded with tin, and before long even Thingol's emissaries came to Thargelion to barter for it. He did not part with his armor easily, for it was not easily made and once he had discovered the secret of its making the labor of its manufacture bored him. But it kept his folk clothed in leathers and silks, and enriched his herds with proud beasts.

He never took to being a lord, though, however much his advisors urged him to dress regally. Fine velvets made his skins itch and the circlet Silpion convinced him to wear at court only gave him a headache. Tol-Galion, as Silpion named his house, was more fitting for a coppersmith than a prince of the Noldor, and though he had built a strong wall around the place and had even fashioned a cunning bridge that could be raised to keep enemies away, the house itself was plain save for those rooms set aside for emissaries and merchants. That, of all things, had kindled the Dwarves' anger. He horded his plunder all for himself, so they said, and never enjoyed a brass ring of it.

His brothers, too, were ill-pleased with him. They came ever and again to Thargelion but never for pleasure; no, it was when they wrote begging arms and he refused them. He rode with his men when called upon, and he guarded the eastern flank of Beleriand against Morgoth, but as for his war-chests, those he kept locked tight unless they came bearing coin.

He knew his horde was worth the price he asked. He would sell them horses brave enough to stand their ground against any foe and mail that would turn aside the swiftest arrow. They often grumbled, though, that his coffers were full while theirs were near spent. When their patience wore thin they even used that name Celegorm had once thrown at him. He had not smelt the foul stench of elf-flesh charred by a dragon's flame, nor had he seen a man gasp for air when the poison from orc-arrows all but closed his throat.

Celegorm's eyes grew cold as steel at those charges – did they think he never left his forges, and that he let the men of his household beat back Gothmog's ilk while he cowered in safety? – but he would not answer them. So they bought what they needed and cursed his stiff neck and grumbled foul names under their breath.

Still, when Maglor's crops failed or when the dwarves' wells were poisoned by orc-craft, Celegorm came to their aid. He kept his pantries full against just such times as those. They might think him a greedy mongrel, a  _nasty treasure-grubber_ , most of the time, but no matter.


	2. Notes

There isn't much canon on Caranthir's life that I am aware of. His mother-name is  _Morifinwë_ , literally dark-Finwë. This is attributed in HoMe XII to his dark hair, but I find that explanation unconvincing since nearly all Noldor were dark-haired. I have always wondered whether the name came from having a darker temperament than most people.

  


"The incident with Angrod" is canonical, though I've left out the details for the purpose of space here.

  


But Caranthir, who loved not the sons of Finarfin, and was the harshest of the brothers and most quick to anger, cried aloud: 'Yea more! Let not the sons of Finarfin run thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be come indeed to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin.'

  


Then Angrod was wrathful and went forth from the council. Maedhros indeed rebuked Caranthir; but the greater part of the Noldor, of both followings, hearing his words were troubled in heart, fearing the fell spirit of the sons of Fëanor that it seemed would ever be like to burst forth in rash word or violence. ("Of the Return of the Noldor,"  _The Silmarillion_ )

  
  


Caranthir's lack of diplomacy shows up in his dealings with the Dwarves:

  


And thus it was that Caranthir's people came upon the Dwarves, who after the onslaught of Morgoth and the coming of the Noldor had ceased their traffic into Beleriand. But though either people loved skill and were eager to learn, no great love was there between them; for the Dwarves were secret and quick to resentment, and Caranthir was haughty and scarce concealed his scorn for the unloveliness of the Naugrim, and his people followed their lord. ("Of the Return of the Noldor,"  _The Silmarillion_ )

  
  


Incidentally, this is the passage that gave me the idea that Caranthir was a craftsman. I know that in HoMe XII we're told that "[Curufin] alone showed in some degree the same temper and talents" as Fëanor. If you take HoMe as canon (I don't), this can be read as saying that Curufin had the temper and talents. I like to imagine others had a scientific skill set but just not his temper, and Caranthir seems to fit the bill. I think his accomplishments can be more attributed to diligence than genius, anyway.

  


Some of you may notice two allusions to  _the Hobbit_ : Caranthir's disbelief that anyone would really fight "a war for gold," and the dwarves' charge that Caranthir "horded his gold [...] and never spent a brass ring." That's not an accident. While I really enjoyed developing a craftsman Fëanorian and showing him as a bit of a geek, this story was as much inspired by the  _Hobbit_  as the  _Silmarillion_. I always felt Thranduil was unfairly maligned by the dwarves and Bilbo, and that it was a really good thing that he had accumulated all that wealth. How much worse would things have been for the people of Laketown if he lived richly and didn't keep his treasures in reserve?


End file.
